


Operative

by shealwaysreads (onereader)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (007-style spy), BAMF Draco Malfoy, Competent Draco Malfoy, Friends With Benefits, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt Harry Potter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War, Smoking Draco Is Delicious, Spy Draco Malfoy, To More Than Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29875338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads
Summary: After the war, Draco finds himself in the familiar position of not getting what he wanted. But sometimes, what you need finds its own way to you.Heaven made us agents , free to good or ill. -Dryden.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 150





	Operative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/gifts).



> For my dear and lovely friend Slytherco, this fic is a tiny little chunk of love for you wrapped up in words, and it doesn’t come close to the whole–but I hope you love it darling ❤️

_March, 2008_

A bang shattered the silence, and Draco jerked awake, wand in hand, adrenaline surging in his chest.

Someone was knocking on the door, hard. Once, twice, three more times in quick, rhythmic succession. No one was supposed to know where Draco was. No one.

He rose from his bed and stalked across the flat—rented through three different shell companies, funded by the cashflow that had sprung eternal in the wake of Kendrick’s early successes with the group of agents he’d recruited fresh from the wreckage of the war—silent and practiced at avoiding the creaky floorboard in the living room. 

Draco had been in Marseilles for more than a month now, perfecting his routine and waiting for the signal to act. He’d had plenty of time to memorise every inch of the place, and reinforce the shoddy wards, too.

Wand drawn, he touched his fingertips to the runes he’d carved through the chipped white paint of the doorframe deep into the wood below. They lit up, gold and reassuringly bright in the dark hallway, before that glow dispersed and arranged itself across the door, revealing the shining outline of a single figure. 

Draco stepped back, and drew the knife he kept at his belt. Wizards never expected a blade, and a Protego couldn’t save them from its cutting edge; Draco had learned that himself on his first mission, hunting down Walden Macnair. It might just be one of the unfortunate souls who lived in this same half-derelict block of flats that he was stuck in, waiting to ask to borrow a cup of sugar. But Draco hadn’t survived this long by being a trusting soul, so he raised his knife, ready to strike, and opened the door with the touch of his wand, only to stop short—for once, almost stunned to silence. “What the fuck?”

Harry Potter stood, slumped and bloody, leaning on the threshold of the safe house that nobody was supposed to know about, in a city nearly a thousand miles from where he’s supposed to be. His face was a mess of bruising, there was a dark stain on his shirt, and the hand not currently clutching his wand was shaking.

“Malfoy, let me in?”

Protocol said no. 

Protocol said to wait for the pre-assigned signal. Protocol said any deviation from the mission brief was cause for disavowal—if Draco broke protocol he would be left to the wolves, he had no official cover, no diplomatic immunity. The French would have him on the chopping block for operating in their domestic territory without leave from the _l'office de la sécurité nationale_ as soon as they found out; the neo-Death Eater cell he was following would sniff him out within days; and Kendrick would want him hunted down for breaking the rules—Draco would be made an example of as a deterrent to the rest of the agents in the division. 

Protocol said no. But Potter breathed like a man with worse than just bruises, heavy and wet-sounding. Draco lowered his knife. “Are you being followed?” 

“I don’t think so,” Potter grimaced. There was blood at his nose and his mouth, already drying and dark, and he had a hand to his side.

“Get in, then.”

He hadn’t intended to offer any more help than access to the safety of the four peeling walls of the tiny flat, but Potter stumbled on his first step, so Draco ducked close to hold him up and dragged him towards the single armchair in the place. Potter didn’t even struggle against the too-firm grip Draco had on him, even though he grunted with discomfort and his head lolled back against the backrest when Draco dropped him down into the seat.

“I’m sorry to repeat myself, but what the fuck, Potter? Who did this to you?”

“I—” Potter grit his teeth and took a shaking breath. “I was going to give the signal, last night, but—”

“ _You’re_ the contact? I thought we had a mole, I thought we’d turned someone.”

Potter huffed out a ragged laugh. “I _am_ the mole. I’ve been in with them for a while.”

“You’re a mess. What happened?”

“I was leaving to go to the shorefront, to cast the spell, but— 

* * *

_February, 1999_

“Mister Malfoy, I understand that your application to the Department for Magical Law Enforcement was rejected.”

It stung, said so bluntly, and by a stranger too. But Draco had become used to the nettle of shame, so he kept his face placid and his hands still. “Who exactly are you?” he asked.

“My name is Kendrick Shacklebolt, a pleasure to meet you.”

“ _Shacklebolt_? Well. It’s nice to see that our new Minister indulges in a bit of traditional nepotism just like the rest of us,” Draco sneered. 

Kendrick shrugged, and pulled out the chair opposite Draco. He sat, presumptuous and comfortable, and annoyingly handsome as he levelled dark eyes at Draco. “Minister Shacklebolt is my cousin, though I can assure you I am—at least—qualified for my role.” 

“And what is your role? How exactly do you know about the result of my application?”

“I know you were turned away because I sat on the panel that decided to reject your application,” Kendrick replied. His face was impassive, as though he hadn’t just admitted to ruining Draco’s fragile plans for the future. The bastard.

“So, was it that you didn’t think I had what it took to be an Auror, or that you don’t think I deserve the opportunity to _try_?” It was bitterness, plain and simple, that made him ask. 

“You’re more than qualified to be an Auror, though you would have struggled—I think—with the necessity of working with others. Your duelling marks were exceptional though.” Kendrick unbuttoned the jacket of his finely tailored purple suit in order to settle himself more comfortably; he was tall and broad-shouldered with perfectly manicured hands. He’d look like a paper-pusher, but for the wand calluses on his palm that spoke of long hours of active casting. “Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix, mister Malfoy?”

Draco swallowed down his surprise at the question. Of course he knew—he’d been privy to months of Voldemort’s furious plans to obliterate Dumbledore’s efforts to organise against him for a year—but he also knew full well that very few others would have. The fact that Kendrick was asking Draco meant he already knew the answer, so Draco just arched a brow and waited.

“Well.” Kendrick paused and took a sip of his coffee, undeterred by Draco’s efforts to be antagonistic. “As I’m sure you’re aware, they were a particularly successful force in working against the plans and followers of the dark wizard known as Tom Riddle, despite the Ministry’s lack of engagement during both the first and second wizarding war of Britain.”

Draco’s face felt hot, though he knew he wasn’t blushing, it was just barely suppressed fury boiling under his skin. ‘The dark wizard known as Tom Riddle’, indeed. “As charming as this little wander into recent history is, shall we do away with this ridiculous posturing and admit the fact you know full well I still bear the Dark Mark, and know _personally_ how effective the Order was. What do you want?”

“I’m here to—”

“Please be aware that if the next words out of your mouth sound anything like pity or piss-taking I _will_ curse you right here in the middle of all of these Muggles, statute and powerful cousins be damned.”

Kendrick had the gall to smile, like Draco had just cracked a joke. “I’m here, mister Malfoy, to offer you a job.”

“A job.”

“Yes. The Minister for Magic has tasked me with setting up a new division in magical law enforcement, one that has the power to go beyond our borders to pursue offenders. A division in which agents have a legal and operational remit that goes...beyond what the Aurors are allowed.”

It sounded like a lie. It sounded like nothing Draco would have expected from the new Minister for Magic. “What’s this division called?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. And when it does, nobody will know it. If you accept my offer, you will be employed, with substantial financial recompense, but you will be under an Unbreakable Vow to keep all aspects of your work absolutely secret. Even to your family, your loved ones.”

Draco refused to react, not with a tremble of his chin, not with a flutter of his hands. “I’m sure you’re aware that my mother died this winter. Which, I’m sure is why you’re approaching me. Aren’t waifs and orphans not the stock and trade of this kind of...organisation?”

Kendrick nodded, conceding the point. “My condolences.”

“When you do you expect your answer?”

“Now, mister Malfoy. A simple yes or no will suffice.”

* * *

_March, 2008_

“They caught you last _night_? What did they do—are you compromised?” If Potter had given himself away, if he had let slip a single detail of their operation, Draco’s orders were clear. 

Potter shook his head, and when he opened his eyes they were unfocused, glassy. “Malfoy, I—” His hand slipped away from where it had been pressed against his side, and a sluggish stream of blood flowed in its wake.

“ _Accio_ medkit,” it sailed into Draco’s hand as he dropped to his knees by the chair. Close, like this, he could smell the blood on Potter, and the lingering sulphur of offensive curses. “Talk me through it, Potter, what did they use on you?”

Potter gripped hard at the arms of the chair as Draco went to work on the buttons of his shirt, it was sticking to whatever wounds it hid. “They, ugh, they—” he panted, “they used Crucio, a fair bit, and then some of those old Basque curses for skinning rabbits, which was fun.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter.” Draco had undone every button and carefully peeled back the ruined fabric of his shirt; his torso was a mess of violently deep bruises and lacerations. “They used a bit more than that by the look of things.”

“Well.” Potter attempted a shrug, and the wound in his side—a long, jagged gash—bled again. “I sort of lost track, Malfoy.”

Two minutes in the door and Potter had already broken half a dozen operational procedures, bled on the only armchair in the flat, and managed to loosen Draco’s own iron-firm grip on his emotions. Frustration rolled hot and spiky through his veins. “How long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have they been going at you?” Draco pressed his fingers carefully along Potter’s belly, his chest, his sides.

Potter let out a shuddering breath as Draco’s inspection hit the right side of his chest, pain only just restrained. “All night. They took turns. They’re not a fan of traitors to the cause.”

“I’m going to need to reset these ribs.” Potter grit his teeth and nodded, so Draco counted down and then cast. Potter’s bones shifted back into place with a grinding noise, but Potter himself didn’t even scream out. Draco swallowed down reluctant admiration and moved his attention to the open wounds still slicking Potter’s sun-drenched skin in bright blood. “So. Where are they? Are you under a _Fidelius_?”

“No, none of them trust each other enough for a spell like that.”

“But they trusted _you_ enough to let you into their organisation, did they? I can’t believe they swallowed the notion you’d be a fucking blood purist,” Draco muttered. Potter’s flesh knit back together under Draco’s wand while he shook his head incredulously, threads of muscle and sinew and skin spun into fresh pink newness woven with magic and Harry’s own lifeblood. “You said you’d been with them for a while. What’s ‘a while’?”

“Since last August.”

Draco looked up, only to find Potter staring down at him. His eyes were focused now, the healing had already dulled the pain that had clouded them over, and Draco was pinned. “August.”

“Yeah, August. I’ve been here since then. It was a deep cover mission. Hermione and Ron think I’m on some kind of pilgrimage in the Himalayas.”

“Right.” Draco looked away and stood, brushing down his trousers. “I need an address, I trust you have enough filed away that you can spill it neatly into a Pensieve when we get back to London?”

Potter nodded, and Draco turned away. “Is there anyone I should retrieve for further questioning?”

“No. No, I’ve got all the information I was sent in for.”

“Good.”

* * *

_July, 2007_

Ministry Galas were tedious, overblown, and sadly compulsory. Draco might be gainfully employed in the Ministry’s own Secret Service, but nobody else knew that. It was required of him to continue to present the louche habits of a wealthy young Malfoy; suitably remorseful in his philanthropy, but as useful and politically active as a butterfly. He was to appear harmless. 

Potter was always lurking around the fringes of these kinds of events, though he wasn’t the guest of honour, not anymore. Draco privately wondered what strings had been pulled to achieve that and suspected Undersecretary Granger-Weasley of abusing her position to somehow extricate her old friend from the clutches of politics. 

Potter would have been a terrible poster-boy, anyway; he drank too much, and he clearly despised the requisite mingling and glad-handing that came part and parcel with the role—he never even bothered pretending to be polite. Though he did at least look the part; he was all sleek lines and sharp tailoring, and the wild curls of his hair only served to highlight the cut of his jaw and the arch of his brow. Draco always kept an eye on him, the habit was too well-ingrained to shake easily—even if he’d been inclined to—and the view was, quite frankly, too good to ignore.

Draco accepted air kisses from Ariadne Henderson, wife of the Head of International Magical Cooperation, and then slipped through the crowds to the balcony. Nights like these called for strong drinks, and nicotine, but Draco was Portkeying out to Poland at arse o’clock the next morning so he had to lean into the latter. He’d need his wits to deal with his contact, and Hangover Potions always left him with a poor handle on his temper. 

He lit his cigarette with his wand, and closed his eyes as that first inhalation—bitter and hot and satisfying—soothed his growing desire to escape.

“Tired of it already?” 

Potter. Draco opened his eyes to find him leaning—relaxed and arrogant—against the balustrade, looking back in towards the party. 

“You looked like you’d rather be anywhere else from the moment you arrived.” Draco exhaled, deliberate and smoky, towards Potter’s profile. “I lasted longer.”

Potter tipped his head to the side, and pinned Draco with a half-smile. “You noticed me as soon as I came in then?”

Draco hesitated, caught. It was a good thing that Draco knew this particular competitive weakness was Potter-specific, else he’d worry about being so simply outfoxed tomorrow in Krakow by the famously intractable and dangerous Aleksandra Brzezinski. He half-wanted to snap out that yes, actually, Draco _had_ noticed him because it was Draco’s _job_ to notice people, now. Better that than admitting he’d never been good at looking away from Potter, and his green eyes, and the smiles he bestowed on other people. But either option would be revealing more than he ought to, so he just smirked and took another deep drag of his cigarette.

“Aren’t we all supposed to notice you?” he asked. “Isn’t that why they still invite you, even though you’re not making speeches anymore?”

“Mmm, I reckon so,” Potter hummed, and swirled his drink—dark amber, brandy maybe, or a finely aged Firewhiskey—before taking a sip. His bottom lip was glossy in its wake. “Didn’t think you’d play along though.”

“Yes, but I’m drunk, Potter.”

“No, you’re not.” Potter looked meaningfully at Draco’s hands, empty but for his cigarette. “You’ve hardly drunk anything all night. Which considering the fact that you’ve been sat with the Hendersons is a bit of masochism if ever I’ve seen it.”

“You noticed _me_ then, did you?”

Potter ducked his head, caught out. “Well.” He didn’t bother to invent an excuse, impolite as ever.

“I’m going to leave in about five minutes.” Draco dropped his cigarette, leaving it to smoulder, uncrushed, between them. “You should probably go, too.”

“And where should I go, Malfoy?”

Draco’s Portkey to Poland was set for five in the morning. It was just past midnight. He had the time. “I have a flat; 25, Wellington Square. I’m sure my drinks cabinet could accommodate you.”

Potter drained his glass, it wasn’t his first by a long shot but his eyes were clear and bright. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, and then the bastard Apparated away, leaving Draco to weave his way out of the party, past taffeta gowns and velvet robes. 

He Apparated home, into the silence of the hallway, then opened the door—Potter was there; leaning against the doorframe with hot eyes and a half-smile. He already had his bow tie undone, his shirt unbuttoned, and he moved faster than a man who had been knocking back the drinks had any right to.

_“Fuck—”_

Potter cut him off with an open-mouthed kiss, whiskey-hot and urgent, and Draco didn’t try to speak again. Not when he was pressed so perfectly firmly against his own front door, not when Potter’s hand was already shoved, ungraceful and utterly welcome, down Draco’s trousers. Instead, he licked right back into Potter’s mouth, and rolled his hips.

That first night was a quick fumble. The second night, a fortnight later, was longer, they even made it to Draco’s bedroom. The next time they connived to bump into each other, Potter introduced Draco to his favourite cafe the morning after; the one round the corner from his house. The last time, Potter left with a kiss and a promise to bring a bottle of Macallan to replace the one they’d smashed in their enthusiasm the night before _._ But he never did.

* * *

_March, 2008_

It didn’t take long. In fact, it hardly felt fair.

Draco arrived at the warehouse on the docks with an intimate knowledge of the layout. He’d borrowed a silver-bright memory from Potter; he knew where his targets slept, where they ate, who was indulging in the potions they dealt to fund their operation, and who was scared of fire. 

He had the benefit of years of experience, and the calculated indifference of a professional; though this time that sharp edge was blurred with a brutality he didn’t usually indulge in. Potter was a colleague, of course, it stood to reason that Draco should be thorough. Draco had always worked alone, and though he rationally understood his actions were part of the wider goal to protect and defend, he had never had this kind of personal connection to any of the victims of the criminals he chased. He couldn’t shake the sight of Potter’s mouth, bloody and sore.

As violent and as committed as this particular group of dark wizards might have been, they didn’t stand a chance. There was a reason Kendrick had chosen Draco for this job. He would have made a terrible Auror. 

It was the edge of nightfall by the time Draco made it back to his safe house, and he stood in the street outside—just for a moment—wondering if he would find it empty when he climbed the stairs. There were protocols, codes of conduct. _Repercussions_. 

He unlocked the door with a wave of his wand, and stepped through the golden glow of his wards, and immediately knew he wasn’t alone. Potter stood in the doorway to the bedroom, clean and healed and the kind of beautiful that made the peeling walls and bare floorboards of the safehouse more palatable just by his presence. He had that wry, lop-sided smile on his face that always made Draco want to know whatever joke had prompted it. 

“So,” he said, and his voice was soft, not like when he’d stumbled into Draco’s arms that morning, when it had been pained and mission-focused. Draco drifted towards him across the living room. “Shall we talk about it?”

Draco smiled. “What, the reason that you said you couldn’t do something serious last summer? Or why you didn’t reply to my letters? I think I’ve about figured that one out, Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked. Draco had no idea how he operated, with a face so open; Draco could see that tension, that fragile hope he felt in his own fingertips. Wanting to touch, wanting to hold on.

“You owe me a bottle of Macallan,” Draco replied.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, leave a kudos or comment and let me know your favourite bit, and come and say hello on [Tumblr!](https://shealwaysreads.tumblr.com/) ❤️


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